


On This Night

by hilaryfaye



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Pitchmas Week fic, posted here a bit late. </p>
<p>Pitch pays a visit to a place that no longer welcomes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On This Night

> So take this night and wrap it  
> Around me like a sheet  
> I know I’m not forgiven  
> But I need a place to sleep
> 
> —Black Lab; This Night

Pitch had been watching the snow pile up, slipping through the trees unnoticed by the Frost boy. The little winter spirit never noticed him—just another shadow among the many. It amused Pitch sometimes, to watch the boy cause any number of minor inconveniences to the people who couldn’t see him. But that’s all they ever were, minor inconveniences. If the boy had showed any true potential, Pitch might have considered persuading the boy to join him.

But on this night, it wasn’t Frost that Pitch was seeking.   
Pitch wasn’t even sure if seeking was the right word—because he wasn’t entirely sure that he really wanted to be seen. It seemed unlikely that, even after all this time, Nicholas would have forgiven him.

Pitch was still the only one who ever called him Nicholas. The others called him “North," as if that single syllable was capable of doing justice to the man. Nicholas was a name that took time to say, a name that slipped out like a reverent prayer—and Pitch was lacking reverence these days.

It always tasted a little bittersweet, like something half-forgotten but still near to some deeper part of him, a place that only an arrogant Cossack had ever managed to reach.

Pitch glanced up at the Frost boy, skating over the treetops, and slipped away into a shadow.

How often had he done this, slinking about like a ghost who didn’t want to be seen? How had he fallen so far?

Pitch sighed as he stepped out of the darkness halfway around the world from where he’d started. He shivered, hating that he did—there had been a time where he had been powerful enough that he had never noticed the cold. Now he pressed his arms tight over his chest and made himself small and unnoticeable, pushing through the snow to the small village of buildings that waited above.

The Frost boy had been trying for ages to break in. Pitch had a significant advantage over him—because for Pitch, there had always been a secret way in.

He hadn’t come near it in years, but Pitch expected that if Nicholas hadn’t forgotten about it, he was at least comfortable in the assumption that Pitch was gone forever.

And that was what stung, really. That Nicholas didn’t seem at all bothered by the thought that he was gone. Even hatred would have been better than being forgotten.

Pitch’s breath fogged before him, and he watched it with some bitter amusement. So there was a little warmth left in him yet, was there? Nicholas would be surprised. He recalled that, on one of the last occasions that Nicholas had spoken to him, the Guardian had called him “ice-hearted."

"But at least you admit I have a heart."

Pitch had said it to rankle him, mostly. He didn’t care for hearts and the things that they brought with him.

But then, why was he crawling through the dark to break into an empty workshop, if not for that?

Normally Nicholas’s workshop was always busy—round the clock. But on Christmas Eve, it would be empty. The yetis and elves would be elsewhere, enjoying their reprieve, and Nicholas would be out making his rounds. For a few hours, at least, Pitch would be able to wander undetected.

The workshop was dark, and still. It was eerie, as if everyone had simply vanished.

Pitch walked through hesitantly, noting the things that had changed, and what had been left the same, since last he walked through those halls. He wondered if he should leave—not for Nicholas’s sake, but his. It was almost more painful to see for himself the ways in which he wasn’t missed.

He ran his fingertips along the wood paneling of a wall, as if it would call up something long forgotten. He drew in a breath and strode towards the stairs. He wouldn’t risk the elevator—it made too much noise, and he wouldn’t chance drawing attention to himself. He wasn’t yet ready to face the Guardians again.

He gripped the cool banister, sucking in a breath. This was ridiculous. He was being made to feel loss because of architecture. He shook his head, and continued his climb of the stairs. There was one place in particular that Pitch wanted to see before he left.

The door to Nicholas’s private rooms was heavy, solid pine—one that still let off the smell of resin. Pitch opened it only a little, squeezing through into the dark rooms beyond.

He stoked the dying fire, knowing that Nicholas would return exhausted and ready to sleep through Christmas Day. He could do many things, but muster up the energy to celebrate after the hardest twenty four hours he had all year, Nicholas had never been able to do.

The room cast in a red glow, Pitch turned to have a look around.

Nicholas’s room had changed little since Pitch had last been there. It was still disorganized, cluttered with designs and books, and late-night projects that he had brought in from his work space. Nicholas was never one to let sleep keep him from his work.

Pitch smiled a little, glancing over the designs. Hard at work, as always.

Pitch let out a breath and looked around the room. He was not meant to be here. Not that that had ever stopped him, but he didn’t mean to be caught—and he didn’t feel inclined to linger in this place where he was no longer welcome.

He left the rooms, and the workshop, as he had found them. Let Nicholas and the others be ignorant of the fact that he had been there at all. Let them carry on thinking that he was gone forever. He would come back.

* * *

North had hardly stepped off the sleigh before he knew something was different. He may have been exhausted and sore, but few things about the workshop ever escaped his notice—and someone had been there. Someone who wasn’t supposed to be.

North wasn’t quite able to pin down who had trespassed until he reached his rooms. Someone had tended the fire.

None of the yetis or elves was allowed anywhere near his private rooms, and even if they had been, none of them would have bothered with the fireplace.

North didn’t want to see it. He looked away from the low fire, shaking his head. No. No, he was gone.

He was supposed to be, anyway. And even if he wasn’t, he should have known better than to come back here.

Things had changed in ways that couldn’t be fixed. Whatever the past had been, there was no room for him in this life anymore.

* * *

Pitch stalked through the snow, finding the cold and the dark of the woods to be better than the half-light of his cavern. He needed to clear his thoughts.

He caught sight of the full moon through the clouds and slipped back into the darkness, scowling at the sky. Of course there would be a full moon tonight. Couldn’t he just leave Pitch alone in peace, for one night?

Things would have been better if MiM had kept his nose out of other people’s affairs, and stayed minding his little haven where he belonged. But no, he had to meddle, and call up his “Guardians." Things were good before MiM started taking an interest in the things that went on below.

Pitch slunk through he shadows, eventually sinking to sit beneath a fir tree heavy with snow. He wouldn’t freeze, he knew—Death, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with him.

So Pitch watched his breath fog in the air before him, and out of exhaustion more than anything else, he slept.

He slept, and did his best not to think of the once-young cocky Russian who was so sure of himself that he was able to smile at the dark.


End file.
